Recurrence
by BonGarland
Summary: Movieverse. An inner monologue Henry has during the last scene. He's loved and he's lost, but he continues on, inspired by antique memories.


**I'm infatuated with this character. And his portrayer, though that's neither here nor there. And so I give you a Henry Sturges drabble. A window into his thoughts during that finnnnallll little scene in the movie before the credits roll. I don't own the quoted lines or the characters, though I wish I did. Enjoy.**

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"A guy only gets that drunk when he wants to kiss a girl, or kill a man. Which is it?" Those words, accompanied by a strong slap on the shoulder to jar any potentially-existent concealed weapons loose and ascertain the man's motive.

I don't know why I got into the routine of seeking students, comrades, eventually close companions, for my work, my…_calling, _ when its central focus was death. The risk of, defiance of, and finally, instigation of. And I have lost so many already.

It does not deter me from eyeing the nervous gentleman who's been seated on a barstool next to me all evening, tugging another button on his shirt loose every hour on the hour, sweating like the mug of beer he was nursing in between shots of cheap whiskey. He seems to be wavering between that penultimate decision, the alcohol pushing him closer and closer to the edge of decisiveness, though it is hardly one to be giving advice.

I would know, since it got me into the Business. A long time ago, before this country was an official country, I had been in a roadside tavern of sorts, throwing my father's gold at the man filling tankards, demanding more and more. Someone had brushed into me walking past, jarring me from my seat, which in hindsight would not have been hard, given what I'd consumed already; but it was enough to raise my ire, make me pivot and drunkenly aim a punch.

When the man had turned, I spotted a set of fangs that had sprouted out of anger, though I merely attributed it to flawed drunken vision. Nonetheless, the man grabbed me by the collar after dodging my poor swing, flinging me out the door and into the night-darkened street. No other patrons paid any mind, except for one, who had been sitting in a dim corner.

When I'd gathered my wits as best I could, clumsily raising both fists again, I found myself surrounded by the man and two of his lackeys. They were emitting small hissing noises, their features looking odd even in the nearly-nonexistent light stemming from a flickering lantern hung outside the establishment; I thought I heard one mutter "dinner", before I was on the ground, pinned by several pairs of arms.

All at once, I heard a dull thwacking sound, felt something spatter across my face, and a gargling sound as one man's weight fell straight on me, and the other arms released me. I had blacked out at that point.

When I had awoken, I'd been in the back of a carriage, seated across from an older gentleman who was carefully wiping a jewel-encrusted saber with a handkerchief as if it were silverware for dinner, bringing it close to his eyes and rubbing furiously at particular spots. He looked up as I groaned and raised a hand to my head, smiling warmly and proffering a flask of water. And it had gone on from that, my recruitment comically similar to Abraham's in a way, though I daresay the blow to my pride had been deeper, and my awakening in a carriage not so comfortable as the bed I gave Abe.

When I think about it, I honestly do not know if I regret joining the crusade. It had been an accident, after all, no deep-rooted quest for vengeance had made me pick a fistfight with a vampire. And yet I found myself losing my teacher, the love of my life, and my best friend, through the years I maintained my pursuit of this trade.

George Tomlinson, my mentor, was killed a year after I completed my training and had been sent into the world. He had grown too famous in the occult world, and an elite group of vampires had been dispatched to take care of him; a group sent by Adam, in fact.

And then I was changed, and Lucy died before my eyes, even as the blood in my very own veins slowed, my heart giving a few last painful thuds.

I had trained two pupils before Abraham, seeking out the most desperate yet capable men I could, who could be swayed to believe in this side of life, this cause, the existence of "life" after death that fueled these creatures. Both had lasted only a few years each, unfortunate tools of my own wrath. I had not always been so calm as when I met Abraham; vengeance colored my decisions and actions for _decades_ after I was Changed.

That is why I had drilled it into his head so thoroughly, or attempted to; he could be the perfected version of my own crusade, if he could set his emotions aside and tunnel his vision into the base desire to destroy vampires. Personal feelings would only cloud judgment, and yet, I seemed to forget that he was human.

And in the end, Abraham was the most successful associate, student, helper, friend, and confidante I ever had, before and after him. I had been ready to give up the hunt when I met him in that dark, smoky bar, uncertainly calling for whiskey after whiskey and sweating at the very thought of the task he had assigned himself.

But I lost him, too. His words, however, stayed; "vampires are not the only things that live forever". His mission, his fight for rights, his fight against the undead, I carried it all along with me, through the years, decades, centuries.

And here I am again. Though I cannot see myself in a mirror, I see myself, I see an angsty, juvenile Abraham, I see it all reflected in the man to my left, tapping away nervously at a phone and swigging shots, signaling for more with jerky movements. I decide to extend my offer once more, for the first time since Abe, and slowly pull off my dark glasses. "A guy only gets that drunk when he wants to kiss a girl, or kill a man. Which is it?" Slap. The thud of a gun toppling to the floor, and I know my crusade is resumed.

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**Thanks for reading, guys. xoxo ~Bon**


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